


To Be Good

by EdnaV



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Hopeful Ending, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, More Hurt Than Comfort, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Protective Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 16:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30041757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdnaV/pseuds/EdnaV
Summary: Aziraphale feels Crowley’s hands undressing him. He closes his eyes to take in all the sensations: the nimble fingers and the bony knuckles, the warmth of the chest that comes closer and closer. He can hear his heartbeat a bit louder -- their heartbeats, because Aziraphale’s heart is echoing his lover’s while Crowley’s hands are undoing...It’s dark. It’s cold, even if the stagnant air is like a day of drizzle that suddenly turns unseasonably hot.The bathtub -- so white, it’s blinding.----Something reminds Aziraphale of his trial in Hell, and he feels like he’s never good enough...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 80





	To Be Good

**Author's Note:**

> How do you break a writer’s block? With some self-indulgent angst, of course!
> 
> CW: most of this fic describes a panic attack, and there’s a lot of self-hate. There’s comfort and hope at the end, but not perfect happiness.  
> Thank you to Sodium Azide for the thorough beta, and thank you to Z A Dusk for the last-minute Britpick!

Crowley’s about to click his fingers when Aziraphale grabs his hand.

“Don’t,” he whispers.

Crowley laughs -- not about anything in particular, just a laugh of sheer joy. He laughs very often, these days. He laughs because they’re making love. He laughs because Aziraphale’s had a special manicure done for tonight. Because the angel liked his new dress. Because they’re making love, and the only thing they have to worry about is whether to use a miracle to take off their clothes. “Okay,” he says, and he starts to work on the buttons of Aziraphale’s tartan pyjamas. 

Aziraphale feels Crowley’s hands undressing him. He closes his eyes to take in all the sensations: the nimble fingers and the bony knuckles, the warmth of the chest that comes closer and closer. He can hear his heartbeat a bit louder --  _ their _ heartbeats, because Aziraphale’s heart is echoing his lover’s while Crowley’s hands are undoing...

_ It’s dark. It’s cold, even if the stagnant air is like a day of drizzle that suddenly turns unseasonably hot. _

_ The bathtub -- so white, it’s blinding. _

_ Crowley’s hands -- his own hands, in this Hell -- are undoing the buttons of his jacket.  _

_ He’s trying to be suave. “Cool”, as they say. Crowley would be “cool”. He would be dashing. Outrageous, even. A striptease in Hell, that’s something Crowley could do. _

_ Crowley would take his time. He wouldn’t cower in front of-- all of this. _

_ Crowley would be good at this. _

_ Crowley’s hands wouldn’t shake. _

_ Don’t let your hands shake. _

_ Breathe. _

_ The air is suffocating. Breathe anyway. _

_ The hands -- yours? Crowley’s? -- are undoing the buttons... _

Aziraphale tries to come back to the here and now. The trials are over. They’re alive. They’re in his bed.  _ Their  _ bed, now that they’re sharing everything, now that they’re on their own side for good.

Aziraphale loves making love with Crowley. It’s his greatest joy. Better than food.

_ Better than  _ most _ food? Crowley’s a wonderful lover, and Aziraphale suspects that She made them for each other. _

_ Well, he doesn’t have to pick either one pleasure or the other, either the solitary indulgences or the risks of love. Nobody checks his miracles anymore, and there won’t be any surprise visits from-- _

He throws himself into a kiss.

It would be a pity to let those stupid memories poison what he has now. Crowley doesn’t deserve that, especially after his plan saved them both.

_ Stop being silly. Don’t be difficult. Don’t let a small nuisance in your mind spoil a good time for everyone. _

He gets up just a bit, just enough to let Crowley take off the pyjama jacket and grab the vest, start to pull that off too and--

“Angel.”

_ Oh no. _

_ That voice -- Crowley’s. It’s Crowley’s voice, and it’s Crowley talking, and you’re not  _ down there  _ anymore; now, do  _ something.

Aziraphale smiles as coyly as he can, and goes for another kiss--

Crowley stops him by caressing his brow, combing his hair as he draws him closer. He holds him softly -- tighter, now.  _ His heartbeat is so slow,  _ Aziraphale thinks, before realising that it’s just his own that’s fluttering like a little bird that’s fallen from the nest. 

“You’re shaking,” Crowley says.

“It’s nothing.” Aziraphale tries to focus his open eyes on --  _ something. _ The book on the bedside table. Because he’s in his bed. Safe. Everything’s fine, he just has to be good. He tries to steady his voice. “It’s nothing, really, dear.”

“Look at me.”

_ It’s Crowley. You’re in your bed. You love him, do what he’s asking you. _

Aziraphale glances at the golden eyes for less than a second, then he concentrates on his hands. Hands that can’t stop fiddling with his signet ring, to the point that it’s almost scratching his skin. Probably. He really can’t feel his skin right now. He stares at the ring -- the ring that’s there to remind him of his angelic--

_ Stop it, now. You’re truly being silly. Look at  _ him, _ you can do it, it’s not too late to save the night. _

_ To save-- _

_ No, don’t think about-- you made it, there’s no reason to dwell on the past. _

_ Stop it, stop it... _

Crowley’s voice  _ (it’s Crowley’s) _ sounds both so faint that it could come from a distant star  _ (Alpha Centauri? He always loved to talk about...)  _ and so close that it’s inside his chest, a part of his heart, of his immortal soul  _ (he is part of me, we’ve promised to be one, our own side...) _

_ “That thing _ again, angel?”

Aziraphale wants to say something. His breath doesn’t cooperate.

“I’m sorry,” he manages. “I’ll be better...”

_ I’ll be better soon. I will be better. I will be good. I haven’t been good for Heaven, but for you, I will... Just tell me what to do. I’ve never been good at following orders, but I promise that for you I will try... _

“You’re already perfect, angel.”

Something wet is tickling Aziraphale’s cheeks. He giggles almost hysterically.

“Evidently not, my--”

“You are to me. I love  _ you.” _ Aziraphale feels Crowley’s chest filling up with a deep breath. “And you’re safe.” 

“Well, I-- I don’t feel...”

“Yeah, well.” Even in the haze that’s overtaken his brain, Aziraphale knows that Crowley’s rolling his eyes like a diva. “It’s called PTSD, angel.”

_ Don’t be an armchair therapist,  _ Aziraphale wants to say.  _ A year of seeing that lovely American lady doesn’t make you an expert,  _ he wants to say.

He doesn’t say it -- his teeth are chattering and his body  _ (yes, this is my body; my old, too-soft body) _ is shaking. Crowley replies to his arguments anyway. “I’m an expert in  _ you,  _ angel. Only good thing I’m an expert in, I think.”

“I’m not...”

_ I’m not a good thing.  _

_ I’m not a good angel. I’m a deserter from Heaven.  _

_ And I’m not a good human either, saving the world only because I want to eat more sushi. Even sabotaging your efforts to save the world. Saying things I will regret for the rest of my eternal existence-- _

He hears a distant click. Crowley’s miracled a handkerchief  _ (so considerate, remembering that I prefer handkerchiefs to paper tissues)  _ and is dabbing his tears. He’s doing it softly, little more than a caress, saving him  _ (saving me, always) _ from making too much of a mess but not trying to stop him from weeping  _ (am I sobbing? Is it too loud?). _

Crowley just holds him. That’s probably why Aziraphale stops crying, eventually. 

He doesn’t fully realise how or when he’s stopped. He just finds himself back in his pyjamas, under his favourite blanket. His head is resting on Crowley’s chest, his body encompassed by Crowley’s arms, his eyelids feeling heavier and heavier.

Crowley’s humming softly. Aziraphale recognises a tune that was all the rage back in Corinth -- a bawdy song that worked incredibly well as a lullaby too.

He remembers a shouting match in a tavern. Aziraphale’s orders were to inspire chastity into the heart of a saint that was passing by. Crowley had made sure to thwart his rival by “giving that misogynistic arse an earworm he won’t forget.”

He smiles, almost laughs, at the memory, as he settles his body to fit perfectly to the shape of Crowley’s.

_ We’ve survived more than Heaven and Hell. We’ve survived centuries of being together, by being together.  _

His heart hurts a bit at the thought of their lovemaking interrupted by these tricks that his silly mind likes to play, but it doesn’t break.

He doesn’t know when or how he finally falls asleep. He knows that Crowley is there. He knows that Crowley will always be there.

He knows he’s safe. They’re safe, together.

He knows that one day things will be better. 

And tonight that’s enough. 

Maybe it’s not perfect. But it’s good.

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t be shy, make me smile, leave a comment!


End file.
